


A Party Without Cake is Just a Meeting

by MerlinLikeTheBird



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Baking, Character death is off screen before story begins, Comfort Food, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Foodie Arthur, Friendship, Friendship is Magic, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, M/M, Meet-Cute, Optimism, Past Character Death, Recovery, not as dark as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinLikeTheBird/pseuds/MerlinLikeTheBird
Summary: “Ok,” Merlin says before he can talk himself out of it, and suddenly they are signing up for the two week introduction to Italian cookery course. Their elbows knock as they fill out the sheets, and Merlin hides his pleased smile.When someone tries to take Arthur’s spot the first lesson, Merlin politely tells them he’s saving it for a friend if they don’t mind, thank you very much.
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 285





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a Julia Child quote, and a good one! I'd love feedback on this one, it's on the more personal side. I really appreciate anyone taking the time to read though - thanks for giving it a shot!

Hunith used to watch Julia Child’s program The French Chef. Whenever it aired there his mum was, mouthing along in the flickering light of their massive box of a telly, having seen every episode. As an adult, Merlin knew that rather a lot of people had, but as a child he had thought it was a uniquely ‘his mum’ thing. In his mind the two were forever linked. A deeply personal tie that could set his eyes and throat aching just to think of.

She was forever watching cookery and travel programs, but her favorite was Julia despite the fact that there were newer options. _Color_ options, even, he had teased her during the black and white reruns, tucked under her warm arm as she shushed him, or as she fiddled with the rabbit ears to get a better signal. The truth of it was thus; Hunith was, at a very kind pinch, only ever a _decent_ cook at best. She said that Julia never made her feel badly about making mistakes. Always Julia, a first name basis, as though she might pop round for tea at any moment. Merlin didn’t really get it as a child, but he thought he did a little now.

He had made his fair share of mistakes after all, and he didn’t always handle them with the same grace. There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t give to have his mum come along again and tell him it was alright, to put his chin up - that nothing could keep him down for long.

How they had _rowed_ when he dropped out of university to come home and take care of her.

He still didn’t think that was a mistake, no matter what she said.

Should have taken her to Rome, though - _that_ was a regret he would carry forever. Not one he could mend, now. There would be no restaurants in Paris and no al fresco dining in the Italian sun. He hadn’t wanted to take her away from the hospital for so long, not that it had mattered in the end. Instead through the course of her life she had emptied her jar of savings for Merlin over and over again, before he had been old enough to even realise what it meant. Because there was always a school trip, or magic lessons and then piano lessons, or a new bike. She never wanted him to go without, so instead _she_ went without.

Her little corkboard that had hung by the door his entire childhood, dotted with pinned postcards and travel brochures had been packed away. The edges of them dried and wrinkled with age and with the damp that they never totally managed to get rid of by the door - always a little wonky in a way weatherstripping couldn’t fix.

It would be the new owner’s problem now.

What he wouldn’t give to see her again. Or Will, or Gaius, gone even longer. It didn’t seem quite fair, that he should have no family left at all, and some people should have so much.

What he had was half a degree he didn’t want to finish and some inherited property in London that meant he would never have to work again thanks to crazy-like-a-fox Great Uncle Gaius. It didn’t bring him the sense of freedom that he would have thought. He could do anything he wanted, now.

Except he didn’t seem to want to do anything.

He’d read about caretaker’s fatigue online, first living with Gaius while going to school and helping him as he sickened and died, and then after dropping out to care for his mother as she rapidly followed him. But he didn’t have anyone left to care about, so he wasn’t sure if it still qualified.

The house had been sold, her things thrown in storage so he didn’t have to think about sorting them, and he had stared blankly out of the train window the entire ride back into London, dry eyed. It felt as though his heart had been buried with Hunith, or boxed up and forgotten in storage like the rest of it. 

Gaius’s flat had been on the top floor of a squat, ugly little building. The ground floor was a crowded magic shop run by a lady named Finna, and there were a few flats other than his - he couldn’t bear to even look at them. All managed now by a company, by someone who was not Merlin. Carefully put away in a yellowed box in his mind with his mother’s postcards of distant places and her old flour dusted linen apron. His new flat was about as far away as you could get from the homely oddities of Gaius’s place. It was new, and shiny, and it had no photos up at all. Sometimes he felt like he was living in a hotel room. It was a small two bedroom, but the kitchen was nice, the water was hot and always ran clear, and he didn’t have to have a roommate. Mixed blessings, that.

He didn’t _want_ to talk to anyone, but on the other hand a roommate probably would have yelled at him to take a shower after four or five days without. You could get groceries delivered, and by the time you know it it’s accidentally been a month and you haven’t gone outside once.

He was going to get a sun allergy again at this rate, damn his pale skin.

He didn’t keep in touch with any of his old classmates - he knew not a single one would blame him for dropping out, but he still couldn’t quite bear their sympathies, either. Didn’t check his phone, didn’t check his emails. If _he_ died would anyone notice?

He hadn’t managed a single bit of magic in nearly a year.

Something had to change. He knew this wasn’t what she’d want for him.

He poked the tattered corner of his mother’s copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the only thing he couldn’t seem to put away. She had taken a cookery course at their local greenmarket once, and had made a truly awful paella. He still didn’t know if he hated all paella or if it was just another instance of his mum’s best efforts falling a little short when it came to the kitchen.

Feeling a foreign swell of motivation run through his veins he ordered some for delivery that night from a place with stellar reviews, and a price tag that could have fed him for a week in uni. His heartbeat thrummed as he spoke out loud to a person on the phone for the first time in weeks, but when it arrived he couldn’t really taste it. Could only poke at it, sigh, and pack it away in a container for tomorrow. Took the week old pizza boxes out to the bins. That counted for something, right? It hadn’t even been good pizza.

She’d be so disappointed in him.

In a fit of self loathing he tried to magic the dishes clean, but nothing happened, so instead he scrubbed at them furiously under the tap with the endless hot water. Twenty minutes of cleaning later and there appeared to be no appreciable difference to his flat. An hour later and at least he had laundry going in the building's shared units, and he could see the countertops. Marble, or granite, the lady had said, he couldn’t remember. Mum’s had been formica, and very ugly.

She’d always wanted a better life for him, and look how he was treating it.

He slapped his cheeks and put on the telly just to hear someone talking. Great British Bake Off was on, and just the thought of it made him want to scream so instead he turned it off and buried his face in one of his couch cushions. It was plush, and new, and no one had ever spilled cereal milk on it, not even once.

It was an impulse to look up cooking classes, but he thought his mum would have been happy. The fees made his jaw drop and sit up straight from his slouched huddle. The classes ranged from an hour to multiple courses over a few weeks of time, but the prices ranged from _oh my god_ to _OH MY_ ** _GOD_** _._

He put the intro four week course with two lessons a week went into his basket just to see. And he clicked through to the next page just to see what information they needed. And he clicked ‘checkout now’ just to see what would happen. Surely the website would know that he didn’t mean it? That this sort of thing was for people who were not Merlin.

The website didn’t.

He went to sleep on the couch, but only after staring at the ceiling long enough to see the first rays of sunlight come streaming in from his balcony.

In the morning, he was still signed up for the class.

He didn’t call to try and cancel it, but he thought about it. His degree was… not something he was interested in completing, but this was something. Something different than anything he’d done before - something that would make him leave the flat. Somewhere no one would offer well meaning condolences. He’d have to take a shower, and talk to people, and even as foggy as he was he knew that was primarily a good thing.

Or maybe he should just get a cat.

No, his allergies. A dog? He’d have to walk it. Every day, probably. Definitely. Maybe he should just stick with the cooking class for now. His mum would be happy. He could practically hear her voice gushing about it, how exciting it was, how happy she was for him - now if only he could apply himself to cleaning up his room a little bit, Merlin, _really._

He looked around at the state of it, the hour of progress from last night seeming entirely too insignificant today. He wished his magic would cooperate, but instead he hauled himself off the couch and cleaned some more with his own two hands, feeling more motivated than he had in a long while. When he was sweating with effort he stood on his balcony. Maybe he should get a plant. Or not, no need to go crazy.

One thing at a time.

***

The building was sleek, and new, with high ceilings, all spotless glass and metal. The lighting was warm and friendly and not at all like the flickering and humming fluorescents he remembered from his secondary school. He clutched his new navy blue apron with both hands, glad he remembered it. A near thing, he had made it out his door and to the lift before he sprinted back for it, and it was something of a security blanket now.

 _Look at me, I have an apron! Permission to be here, please don’t kick me out._ He tried to look around surreptitiously for bouncers.

Each student got to choose their own station, and due to nerves he was the first one there - so he chose the very back. In this, it _was_ just like secondary. He looked around and tried to avoid eye contact. Also just like secondary.

More people filed in - a group of pretty young women, all together, an older couple, and one man who was maybe a couple of years older than Merlin who took the station next to his. The class would be small, it had said, he remembered now. Individual attention, the site had advertised. Merlin shuffled his feet, nauseous.

His neighbor looked… prepared.

He looked stern, is more like. And his blood red apron with leather straps and his fancy tie and vest made Merlin think of Hannibal Lector. He was probably an accomplished cook already, here to lord over mere mortals. Or choose his next victim. Or maybe he was just here to pick up ladies? He looked the other man up and down. Blonde and handsome, and those _shoulders,_ good lord _-_ it would probably work, damn him. Hannibal looked over at him and raised one eyebrow. Merlin whipped his head back to the front of the room, flushing. Some of the pretty young women were indeed looking back, giggling amongst themselves.

The instructor introduced herself as Annis. She had the sort of no nonsense authority to her voice that made Merlin straighten his spine up despite himself. Safety and kitchen etiquette took up the first twenty minutes, before they moved on to knife skills.

Merlin tried not to let his hands shake. Being in public with other people felt so strange now. Was he sweating? He was probably sweating. He chopped methodically. His eyes slid over to Hannibal, nervous and prepared to be jealous.

Oh. Hm. Or perhaps not.

Hannibal was… not good. Not good at all. Had the poor man never held a knife before? His dicing was lopsided and no two pieces were the same size. Not even close. _How_? That had to take more effort than doing it properly.

His face was serious though. Endearingly serious actually, focused, and just plain charming as he slowly persevered. _Handsome bastard_ , Merlin thought. Maybe this was the play - do poorly, have someone swoop in and do the Patrick Swayze from Ghost method of teaching.

Merlin tried to keep his eyes on his own work, letting Annis come up to him and correct his posture and not even passing out or vomiting right there in front of everyone when she touches his elbow.

 _‘Good job, my love,’_ he could hear his mum’s earnest praise in his ear.

At the end of the four hour course they had a stock going, and a simple stir fry. Hannibal hadn’t given up, even though he was genuinely terrible. They were encouraged to try their neighbor’s as well, and Hannibal had a tight polite smile on as he grudgingly offered a little plate to Merlin. The vegetables were uneven, some overdone and some under, some little burnt bits, and some raw. _How_? Merlin wondered again. The stock was _salty_. It kind of tasted like his mum’s.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, but he finished the whole plate and the little mug of stock to the last drop. He didn’t cry, either, even though he kind of wanted to, and not for the reason the class would assume.

“You didn’t have to,” Hannibal murmurs through a clenched jaw, embarrassed.

“It’s not that bad, chin up,” Merlin says back, keeping his eyes averted.

“Thanks,” he grumbled in that manly way, where he didn’t want to seem too obviously pleased. Merlin could tell though.

Friday brought roasting.

If Hannibal was playing some sort of a game it was a long one. His roast veg was very _zealously_ seasoned, and Merlin’s eyes watered a bit as he ate every bite. He’d never thought too much garlic was possible, always in the school of thought that saw ‘a clove’ on a recipe but added three - but he’d been proven wrong in the worst way.

His mum would have something to say, he was sure. About how Julia would just laugh and learn for next time. All Merlin could think to do was finish his plate though, and hope the other fellow got the idea.

The crowd of pretty young ladies no longer looked jealous of Merlin. Annis had taken to squinting at Hannibal as if he were somehow doing this to taunt her personally.

“You can do it,” Merlin tried to encourage, and had to thump on his chest a little as he coughed, “but perhaps mind the garlic next time.”

“Yeah,” Hannibal agreed, the back of his neck as red as his apron.

The weekend comes and Merlin wishes the next class were sooner. It’s… fun. More fun than he’s had in a long time. It sounds mean, but he’s happy to watch Hannibal fail and just keep going anyway _._ Something about it warms him from the inside like he’s eaten a biscuit straight out of the oven. He wonders if this is how his mum felt about Julia, and it cheers him a little instead of making him want to curl up in bed and never come out.

Another Tuesday comes, and they make scones, jam, and even a simple cake. Merlin loves sweets, and the day feels a little brighter for it. Hannibal grits his teeth and endures.

Merlin works in his butter until it is nice and crumbly, humming to himself. His sleeves are rolled up and the smell of the sugar and blackberries simmering away is tickling his nose tartly. He’s surprised he managed to get any blackberries into the pot, honestly, he could have eaten them all just as they were. It’s the happiest he’s felt in months. Maybe years. Blackberry was always both of their favorite.

His neighbor has strawberries, and they are being macerated in their own juices more than hulled, splattering his red apron and speckling up his gorgeous forearms. It catches on his fine blonde hair and his posh wristwatch. He looks more like a murderer than ever, and Merlin has to bite his lip not to laugh.

The cake is honey lemon, and Merlin licks his fingers clean before remembering that is Not Allowed In Class. He makes a ‘shh’ gesture at Hannibal as he leaves for the sink to wash his hands, and he gets a ‘ _tsk_ ’ with a head shake and faux look of scorn, hilariously offset by the sheer chaos surrounding him.

When they trade plates at the end Merlin gets a pleasantly surprised ‘hmm,’ and wide blue eyes in response to his blackberry jam and he preens.

What he gets in return is perhaps not as bad as usual, and Merlin tentatively smiles at him. The cake is dry and dense, and the scones are slightly too crumbly, breaking apart in his hands, and the jam hasn’t set right - but they taste like he used the right ingredients at least.

“'s good,” Merlin says around a mouthful of scone, licking strawberry off of his wrist where it dribbled down.

He should really learn Hannibal’s real name. He grins, and Merlin sees his cute teeth for the first time as they just stare at each other like a couple of idiots for a while. Ever so slightly crooked, it looks like he has little fangs and Merlin wants to feed him cake.

“Try the cake,” Merlin says innocently, with no ulterior motives whatsoever.

“I don’t really like sweets much,” he says apologetically, but gamely takes a bite, considering it honestly before replying. “It’s not bad, not too saccharine. The lemon’s nice. Why’s mine so much like a brick?”

“You overbeat your batter,” Merlin offers, feeling bold.

“I… did not know you could do that.” He blinks, poking his cake sadly. “I’m Arthur, by the way.”

Merlin resolves to never tell Arthur he’s been calling him Hannibal for the past few lessons, feeling mean. He probably hasn’t murdered anyone at all. “Merlin,” he says instead, holding out his hand before he sees he still has a streak of strawberry on it. Arthur grabs it anyway,beaming at him.

They trade jam jars before they go home, and Merlin wonders if he is making a friend.

He cleans for a while, daydreaming a little about actually having someone over for a change. Getting ahead of himself perhaps - Arthur and he had spoken barely three times now, but _still._ He’s not sleeping well, but he thinks he’s doing better. Mostly. When he’s watching the telly when he can’t sleep he holds his mum’s book and thumbs through the recipes. Some are familiar, some are not, and some of them he can smell if he closes his eyes.

When he wakes up on the couch the kitchen is clean, and he thinks he remembers dreaming of the dishes dancing as they washed themselves. It used to be his mum’s favorite magic of his, always happy for less washing up, and he blinks at the spotless countertops. They glint and shimmer in the sunlight, showing off cheekily.

“Alright, yes, I see you,” he says, feeling chastened somehow.

On Thursday he goes and sits in the park near his flat for a while for some sun, even though he doesn’t have anything to do. He should have brought a book. There are people walking their dogs, and happy mums and their prams, and he leaves, swallowing around a lump in his throat. Stupid. Should have known.

He walks past a cafe that he thinks looks quite nice, but doesn’t go in. His flat seems unnaturally quiet when he gets back inside, and he draws the curtains closed so it is dark and cool, flopping back onto his couch imprint with a sigh. What will they make in class tomorrow?

They will make a leek and goat cheese galette is what. Arthur’s back is ramrod straight as they make the pastry, tangible tension rolling off of him. Merlin kind of wants to lean over and tell him he’s overworking it, but he’s not sure if it would be welcome or if he’d get punched in the face. Annis comes by and does so before he can work up the nerve and he kicks himself for the missed opportunity for conversation.

They chill the dough and work on their fillings, and Merlin keeps his head down.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers at him, leaning into the shared space between their stations. His red apron is looking worse for wear. “How much thyme?”

“Two teaspoons,” Merlin hisses back, a giddy thrill running through him. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he thinks. But Arthur’s serious nod of thanks does exactly nothing to calm the swarm of butterflies in his stomach. “That’s a tablespoon,” he clarifies, when he sees Arthur grabbing the wrong one.

“Thanks,” he mutters, dropping it as though it had burned him.

While their galettes are in the oven they make a basic vinaigrette for a salad, and Arthur sets his mouth in a firm line before grimly whisking away - it nearly makes Merlin choke to keep his laughter in.

Merlin’s pastry is flaky and wonderful, golden and buttery - a triumph. Even Annis smiles at him. Arthur’s is flat and under-baked on the bottom where he rolled it out too thick, but his filling is appropriately seasoned this time, so that’s a plus. Their little salads are practically identical, except for Arthur’s clumsy cuts, but he seems quite chuffed with himself nonetheless.

When they trade Arthur waits for praise like it’s his due.

“Very nice,” Merlin encourages, meaning it this time, “this is the best one yet.”

“Of course, not like it’s difficult, is it?” Arthur sniffs poshly, adamantly not looking at his nearly destroyed station or his filthy apron. Annis stares daggers at him from across the room, and he unsuccessfully wipes flour off of his cheek, only smearing it further.

“Yes, I can see that,” Merlin deadpans. “How is mine?” He fishes blatantly.

“Not bad, Merlin, not bad,” Arthur says around a giant bite. For as posh as he seems on first blush he certainly is shameless.

The weeks continue like that and Merlin realises he has no idea how to make a friend anymore. In school you just… were. You hung out with who you hung out with, or who knew who’s mum, or who lived within biking distance. He couldn’t just ask Arthur if he lived within biking distance. Probably. He’d need to get a bike for that to work, at the very least. _Should_ he get a bike?

But the course is coming to a close soon, and he doesn’t want to just _not_ see Arthur again. He loiters by the shiny brochures and posters showing off their other class options as he waits for Arthur to catch up, always the last to leave since he makes the biggest messes.

His trap works, and he mentally applauds himself.

“Are you going to take another after this?” Arthur asks him, arms folded across his chest as he leans close to look at the options. His shirt strains around his biceps and Merlin has to refocus slightly.

“Maybe,” he says vaguely. “What about you?”

“Maybe,” Arthur mocks him gently, rolling his eyes. “Hm. Italian?”

“They have a bread baking one,” Merlin points out.

“Focaccia is bread,” is the compelling argument for Italian, and he’s not wrong, damn him. “Arancini, Merlin. Gnocchi.”

“Sourdough, Arthur,” Merlin shakes his head. “Don’t you want to keep a little jar of fermenting flour and water that needs you to tend to it daily or it dies?” He’s joking as he says it, but the thought of tipping out a dead starter into the bin makes him a bit miserable. Maybe not.

“Hm, you do sell it well, but no, I vote Italian. And my vote is the one that counts.” What a _prat_ , he thinks, and yet those giddy butterflies are back anyway, and he feels the corners of his mouth pull up even as he tries to fight it.

“Ok,” Merlin says before he can talk himself out of it, and suddenly they are signing up for the two week introduction to Italian cookery course. Their elbows knock as they fill out the sheets, and Merlin hides his pleased smile.

When someone tries to take Arthur’s spot the first lesson, Merlin politely tells them he’s saving it for a friend if they don’t mind, thank you very much.

***

“How about we actually go to a restaurant and let someone else cook the food today?” Arthur asks, the failed remains of his arancini dripping down his apron. _Splat_ , a portion hits the floor wetly. It was their last lesson, and it had ended with a bang. “I wanted these arancini. You have no idea how much I wanted these. I ran an entire extra 5k today in anticipation of these. I yearned for them. I suffered, Merlin.”

“I also suffered,” Merlin nodded in agreement, “I had to try them, if you recall.”

“No one _made_ you try them,” Arthur argued, outraged, “I told you not to! Merlin, I said, these will probably kill you, don’t ingest them, lest I have to call poison control and or go to prison for murder. I said that, I did.”

“You did,” Merlin nodded in agreement again, “but-”

“But nothing. Let’s get something to eat.” And when he looked over Arthur’s ears were red, and he found himself nodding for the third time, flustered.

They stuffed their aprons in Merlin’s bag and he didn’t protest as Arthur called for a car, hovering awkwardly side by side as they waited.

“Do you know where you want to go?” Merlin finally prompted.

“Yes,” he answered bluntly, and didn’t elaborate. Sometimes Merlin enjoyed that he wasn’t the only weird one between the two of them. The car ride was quiet, with Arthur looking carefully at his phone, but he pressed his foot against Merlin’s, his shiny shoe looking very new and posh against Merlin’s battered brown boots.

“Is there a dress code?” Merlin suddenly worried aloud, looking down at his clothes. What if the restaurant was unbearably fancy? How many chandeliers would it have? Arthur was in a similar dress level as always, what Merlin personally thought of as ‘office hot’, with his tapered vests and his fitted button downs. His own clothes were much more along the lines of ‘is it pajamas?’ chic.

“You’ll be fine,” Arthur said, which to Merlin implied there _was_ a dress code, they just would be too polite to kick him out over it. “Sorry,” he offered halfheartedly, holding up his phone, “work.”

Maybe he should mind, but he finds that he really doesn’t, so he presses his foot against Arthur’s more firmly, attempting to be reassuring. He had always been a chatterbox, according to his mum. Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten how to talk easily though, too much time alone, stressed and worried. Had he been an anxious child? There was no one left to ask.

He didn’t really want to get to the questions about ‘what do you do, where’s your family, what did you study’ portion of the evening anyway. It was undeniably nice that Arthur knew so little about him. There was a part of him that was madly desperate for the company and a part of him that wished they had never stepped foot outside of class together. Class was a known quantity.

Class had rules.

Class was safe.

The glowing phone acted as a little shield for Merlin’s nerves. As long as it was on he didn’t have to fill the silence. He relaxed back into the soft seat, enjoying the slow rocking of the car as it carried them away, the lights passing by through the window. The gentle tapping of Arthur’s fingers on his screen and the press of their feet, their knees. He could sleep here, he thought. Maybe that was the solution to his insomnia, just hire a car to ferry him around the city. Or perhaps Arthur would let him sleep in his office, wherever that was. _Business_ , Merlin thought sleepily. _Contracts. TPS reports._

“I’m awake!” He shouted as the car rolled to a stop.

“That’s good,” Arthur snorted, and reached over Merlin to open the door, gesturing for him to get out. “We’re here,” he said, when Merlin didn’t budge.

He scrambled out, flushing hotly. Arthur shut the heavy car door behind them, walked very deliberately around Merlin in his clicky shiny shoes, and then opened the door to the restaurant, looking intolerably smug as he raised his eyebrow. Merlin squeezed through, not meeting his eyes.

The entry wasn’t nearly as posh as he had feared. There wasn’t a single chandelier, for one thing, and the cheerful looking lady who welcomed them looked closer to Merlin’s state of dress than Arthur’s.

“Two, under Pendragon,” Arthur said, and had a hand at the small of Merlin’s back as they were brought to a table near the kitchen. _Was this a date?_ His heart picked up into a sharp flutter. No, no, no - impossible. He was probably just polite. Or weird.

Actually, yeah, that checked out. Arthur was pretty weird. He relaxed again, reassured.

They looked over the menus in grave silence, the blonde man serious once more. He might not be a talented chef, but he seemed to take eating with plenty of gravitas.

“You’ve been here before? Any recommendations?” Merlin asked.

“Is there anything you don’t eat? What about wine?” Arthur said instead of answering, setting his menu down and folding his hands over it.

“No, and wine is… wine. I don’t know much about it,” he admitted, rubbing a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, embarrassed. “If you want to do a wine pairing I’ll try, but I can’t promise I’ll appreciate it properly.”

Arthur nods intensely, considering and looking at the menu again while Merlin fidgets with the stem of his empty wine glass. He hasn’t been to a restaurant in ages. Last time was when he was still in uni, he and Gwen went to a Nandos. Very different experiences, he could admit wryly.

When their waitress comes Arthur takes over and orders for them both, a long list of things Merlin has never had and some things has never even heard of. They are not listed in his mum’s aged book, but he bets she would be so excited for him to be out trying something new that he can’t feel guilty about it for long.

“Saffron arancini,” Arthur says to him when the first dish is brought out along with a few dishes of herbed olive oil and breads. “Even better than mine, if you can believe such a thing.”

When he bites into it he could cry it’s so good, bright and savory. “Better than mine, too,” Merlin admits easily, fanning his mouth. Secretly he had thought his work in class today had been top notch, but this proved him handily wrong. “Hot, hot! So good, though. Mmm.”

“ _So_ good,” Arthur repeats solemnly, closing his eyes while he savors it. It wipes away the last of Merlin’s nerves to see. It’s warm by the kitchen, and he can hear the clatter of pots and pans, and more human voices in one place than he has heard in a long, long while.

Arthur doesn’t ask him anything about himself, and Merlin genuinely can’t tell if he’s reading the room or if he’s just a prat. If this were how he usually behaved on a date it might not get him a second one often, but Merlin is merely pleased for the reprieve.

“Pappardelle and oxtail ragu,” Arthur announces at the next arrival, and Merlin eyes it warily. Arthur takes a bite without flinching at all, closing his eyes to enjoy it again, just like before. He looks rapturous. Merlin kind of wants to try it now. He doesn’t know if he’s ever enjoyed anything in his whole life as much as Arthur is enjoying this pasta.

Oh, it’s good. It’s _good_ , and he takes a sip of the wine that had been poured, and that’s good too, even better together. He copies Arthur and closes his eyes, pretends that he knows what he’s doing.

“Right?” Arthur grins at him like a little kid, and when the plate is taken away it’s practically licked clean.

Merlin finds that he doesn’t have anything to say other than to repeat how good everything is, so he leans back until he can see through the swinging door of the kitchen. He can’t see much, and Arthur steps on his foot teasingly under the table, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass. Makes a motion like he’s going to push Merlin’s tipping chair over, and Merlin makes sure all four chair legs are firmly on the floor. More dishes come out, seemingly endless, all delicious. Finally dessert arrives, but Merlin isn’t sure he can take another bite.

“I thought you didn’t like sweets,” he said as the waitress set the tiramisu in between them, followed by two small scoops of gelato.

“You do though. Besides. Coffee,” Arthur gestured sharply with a tiny spoon to the tiramisu, “and salted caramel,” he insisted at the gelato, “don’t count.”

“Ah, my mistake,” he nods wisely. Both of them are just as wonderful as everything else of course, and Merlin wants to go into the kitchen and shake some hands, or maybe fall asleep under the table. They share a spoon, and Merlin considers that maybe this is a date after all.

Arthur pays, nabbing the bill before Merlin can even see it. Despite the fact that it was maybe the least informative first date of all time, and neither of them learned anything about the other Merlin says he’ll get the next one. Arthur puts his hand on the small of Merlin’s back again when they leave, and he tries not to think about how nice it is to have some human contact, feeling somewhat pathetic and lonely.

Arthur is a complete gentleman when he has the car drop Merlin off first, much to his chagrin.

“You pick the restaurant for next time again, that was brilliant,” Merlin orders. He wouldn’t know where to take them. He has a feeling Nandos might not cut it.

“Or we can actually swap numbers and we could go out on the weekend,” Arthur suggests, holding his hand out imperiously. Prat. Yet Merlin drops his phone in it wordlessly. He puts his number in, the confident taps of his fingers lulling Merlin straight back to sleepy complacency. Maybe he’ll actually get some rest tonight.

He’s back in his flat before he starts to feel upset that he can’t call and tell his mum - or anyone - about his date. It really wasn’t even a particularly good date, by most measures. The food was something past amazing and into extraordinary, but that was basically all they talked about. It takes a little of the pressure off. He knows nothing about Arthur other than that he has a job, probably, and Arthur knows nothing about him other than he likes cake. Maybe Arthur just wants to eat good food and fool around. There are worse things. His phone buzzes.

 _I had fun._ The text reads, punctuation and all. _I’ll pick something good for this weekend. I meet some mates for footie Sunday morning - want to come?_

Merlin bites his lip. It feels huge somehow. He knows what his mum would tell him to do.

 _Yeah,_ he messages back, _tell me when and where._

 _I had fun too,_ he adds, feeling fizzy with joy. He had fun - it wasn’t even a lie. It was the best mediocre date he’d ever been on. Hands down. Strangely it had been exactly what he needed. He grins gormlessly up at his ceiling for a while, rereading his incredibly short text history with Arthur.

As excited as he is he still manages to fall asleep, and in his bed and everything.

For a nice change of pace he dreams about Italy, the hot sun beating down, and Arthur feeding him spoonfuls of decadent gelato as they lie on the beach, and no one says anything at all. The noise of the waves makes dream him take a nap, and he wakes feeling doubly refreshed, even though he suspects that’s not how it really works.

In the morning he braces himself and drinks a strong mug of tea before finally steeling himself and checking his email. It’s pages and pages of unread messages - all what he’s dreaded and expected. Condolences, condolences, condolences. University, university, university.

Gwen has reached out to him, and hopes that he’s doing alright. To please message her, she misses him and thinks about him.

His eyes well up with tears for the first time since his mum had fallen asleep and hadn’t woken back up. He doesn’t miss school, but he does miss Gwen. Lovely, kind Gwen, who had gone with him to the train station when he had to leave. She’d held his hand while he waited, her little hand soft in his, silent and supportive. She’d gone with him to Gaius’s funeral before that, too, when he’d thought he’d be all alone. He’d give anything to bury his face in her curly hair again, and unlike with his mum he _could_ he’s just too big of a _mess_ to manage it. She deserves better from him.

He’s ugly sobbing into his empty tea mug before he quite understands why. Once he lets himself actually feel it he misses her so much his body aches with it. Fuck, he misses his _mum_ and Great Uncle Gaius, and _Will_ , and he misses having things in his life he wants to do and friends that he wants to see. He misses being excited about things. It felt like his evening classes and his first baby steps into friendship with Arthur had opened a gate in his chest he hadn’t realized was closed, and now everything was pouring through all at once.

He cries all through a hot shower, washing his face twice.

Gwen’s phone number is the same, and he feels weird texting her after so long, so he calls her, buzzing and twitching with anticipation. As it rings he thinks it’s not really any less weird to call on the phone. He wants to hear her voice though.

“Merlin?” She says shakily. “Is that you? Merlin?”

“Hi, Gwen,” he says, sniffling again already. He thought he’d cried it all out. “Gwen, I’m so sorry,” he starts, wobbly, and she’s crying too, he can tell.

“Noooo,” she howls, and he laughs wetly at the sound of it, “Merlin, it’s not your fault, I’m sorry about your mum!”

She’s hardly the first person to have said it, but it just hits him differently to have it be said by a friend instead of a doctor or an estate agent. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. Me too. Listen, I’m back in London. Can we see each other?”

“Of course! Where are you right now?” She demands, and he hears things clattering in the background. She has to take his address down twice because she can’t find a pen and she can’t understand him because he’s so snotty. In the end he just messages it to her, and tries to furiously clean just a little more before she comes over. He’s glad he’s been doing some as the days went by so it’s not too bad - she’d be so worried if she came over and it was a tip.

He buzzes her up and opens the door when he hears the lift ding in the distance and rapid footsteps stampede down the hall, before she can knock.

“Merlin!” She shouts, throwing herself into his shaking arms. She's wearing overalls and her eyes are puffy and red, and she's the most beautiful thing he can think of.

“Gwen,” he says into her curly hair, buries his face in it, feeling faint. “Gwen, I’ve missed you _so, so much._ ”

“I’m here,” she says soothingly, rocking back and forth as though he wasn’t nearly a head taller than her. He goes along with it anyway.

“Come in,” he says, feeling weird hovering in the hallway, hoping no one is being nosy. “There’s a couch without stains on it,” he offers.

“Oo-la-la,” she hiccups, and they make an awkward crab-walk into his flat when they refuse to let go of each other that has them both laughing and crying like maniacs. “How have you _been_?” She asks, and as much as he loves her he still doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he admits bluntly. “I’ve been taking some cookery courses thingys lately, that’s been fun. Before I wasn’t really, you know,” and he grimaced. “I’d rather hear about how you’re doing. Please.”

“Ok,” she nods, and fills up the silence of his flat with her voice that Merlin has missed so terribly. She talks about her studies, and her brother, and her terrible roommate, making him think of his empty second bedroom. Maybe he should offer. He’s not the best company lately, but he’s got to be better than Sophia. Merlin putters around the kitchen a little as she talks, and they sit on the floor in front of the oven and watch the scones bake. She takes his hand in hers, and he squeezes back, feeling so overwhelmed and grateful he doesn’t know how to speak it. He's back in the train station, just for a moment, just for now, and his mum is sick, but she's still alive.

They eat the scones and Gwen fairly gushes with praises for him, but shyly confesses the strawberry jam isn’t very good, and doesn’t quite understand why Merlin nearly laughs himself sick.


	2. Chapter 2

Gwen invites herself along to help him pick out new trainers, which is a relief. There’s a lot he doesn’t have - he _does_ have a couch, and a bed, and a telly. He has a laptop and a phone, and he’s been _fine_ without trainers so far, but now he’s been invited to either play or watch a football game and suddenly he realises he has one pair of shoes. And no table. No a lot of things.

Looking around his flat it kind of looks like no one lives there at all really, and he suspects there is an element of truth in it. More than he’d like to admit. He’s shed things and shed things as he moved - to London, to Gaius, to his mum, and back once more, nearly empty handed. Boxes of things that didn’t come with him abandoned to storage or donated or thrown into the tip, whatever had gotten them out of his mind and his sight. His clothes are still in his suitcase. One side is for clean one side is for dirty, and even clean has a variable definition.

“We can go thrifting together,” Gwen offers, as he stutters awkwardly about it, “or to IKEA. Or wherever you want!”

It seems less intimidating when Gwen says it, so he agrees. Neither of them are shoppers by nature, but between the two of them he’s pretty sure they can manage to get a few things. He shows her around the flat like he’s selling her on it, and maybe he is.

“Look,” he gestures at the small empty utility room attached to the kitchen, “there’s space for a washer and a dryer.” Gwen gasps in the appropriate level of appreciation, which is high. The marvels of a new building, they both agree. “A bathroom, with a _bath_ ,” and she claps politely and sincerely at the large high-walled tub. Even Merlin could sit in it and have the water come up to his knees, Gwen could probably do laps. “And this is your room,” he says, opening the last door, “if you want it.”

“Merlin?” She questions, blinking up at him.

“Sophia sounds like a nightmare, and you’re- I mean. You’re my best friend, Gwen, and I’m sorry I haven’t been any good at showing it. But you’re always welcome here, and it’s close to the tube and uni, and it’s your last year, just. You can. If you want.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “I’ll buy a washer and a dryer,” he promises.

“Well, if there’s a washer and dryer on the line,” she says, wiping her eyes for the hundredth time that morning. “You don’t have to though, you know. If you need your own space - don’t offer just because you feel bad for taking time to grieve. You’re allowed.”

His throat clicks and he can’t keep looking at her earnest face, so he looks at the empty room instead. Is that what he was doing? Grieving? It didn’t feel like it. It didn’t feel like he has been doing anything at all. The floor is a little dusty, and he adds a hoover to the shopping list. “It’s just sitting here empty. It’s a waste, and I miss you. If we hate being flatmates you don’t have to stay, but I want you to have it.”

“Alright,” she nods. “If you’re sure. I’m, uhm, not sure I can afford the rent here though.”

“You can,” he says easily, since he fully intends to lie about it. He’ll use her first rent payment to buy her the lego Star Destroyer she’s always wanted. “I’m sure.”

“Do you still want to go get trainers for tomorrow?”

“Ugh,” Merlin says with feeling. “ _Yes_ , but ugh. Shoes. Are you sure you still want to come?”

“ _I’m_ sure,” Gwen says intently. “Maybe we can get you a wardrobe to put them in, too. Besides, if we still want to live together after IKEA then we know it’s meant to be.”

They take turns pushing the cart, and Gwen buys them both a soft serve, and in the end it turns out, yes, it is meant to be.

Sunday brings a gorgeous morning, and crushes his secret hopes that things get canceled because of rain. He wants to see Arthur again, rather more than he would have thought even - wants to know if those fluttery butterflies will come back or if he was just crazy from lack of human contact. The thought of meeting quite literally a football team’s worth of new people has him on edge though.

 _I see you,_ his phone buzzes ominously, making him snort.

“Merlin!” he hears, distantly. A figure that must be Arthur is shouting at him, waving like a shameless loon.

“Hey,” Merlin greets awkwardly, not sure if he should go in for a handshake or a hug or nothing. He smells like sunscreen, so maybe not a hug. The butterflies _are_ back, as it happens. Arthur seems especially beautiful in the sunshine, and Merlin considers that they’ve only seen each other at night in class and on their one maybe date. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming,” Arthur says, “come on and meet everyone. You playing?” He asks, already striding purposefully away. Merlin hops to follow him, feeling like his new trainers betray him. It’s perfectly obvious they’ve never been used for anything resembling sport before.

“I will,” he offers, “but I’m not very good. You might not want me to.”

“You can be on Gwaine’s team then. They won last time, they need to be put back in place.” The crowd of men they approach are far too loud and handsome on the whole, and he wishes he had brought Gwen as a buffer. She could get a boyfriend of her own. Or ten, if she were so inclined. Arthur gives each of their names off rapid fire, and Merlin knows then and there he won’t remember more than a handful of them at best. “That’s Gwaine,” he points out again, “don’t play very well for him.”

“Not a problem,” Merlin agrees as Gwaine guffaws.

“Don’t say that, mate, we’ve got to keep the streak going! Arthur wins all the time, it’s good for his ego to lose once in a while.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll have a lot of choice in it.” Merlin bites his lip, looking to Arthur.

“I will destroy you,” the blond promises solemnly, and Merlin remembers his grim determination as he whisked his vinaigrette, which only makes him sputter as he laughs in reply. Gwaine is throwing his hands into the air before he turns and whispers fervently into Arthur’s ear while the blonde makes a face.

“What did he say to you?” Merlin asks as Arthur scowls and Gwaine starts rounding people up.

“That I should dial it back a little if I want you to stick around,” he admits awkwardly. He looks more uncertain than Merlin has ever seen him.

“I like you the way you are,” he finds himself refuting before he can talk himself out of it, shaking his head. Arthur grins at him though, looking pleased, and suddenly the risk feels well worth it.

They break into teams and the slaughter begins.

One thing Merlin has going for him is he’s always been fast, his long legs good for that much at least. The rest of it is about what he anticipated though - but no one seems to mind at all. Once it’s clear he’s a beginner everyone is downright decent about it. He cheers when Arthur scores, and Gwaine boos and throws a hand over Merlin’s mouth to shush him, and it’s _fun_. The heckling is intense but friendly, and he’s out of breath from laughing nearly as much as running. He feels giddy, the release of his nerves amplifying everything else up and up and up.

Afterwards as he’s sweating through his sunscreen Arthur offers him his water bottle, dripping with condensation. In that moment it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. “Want ice cream?” Arthur leans close to ask, eyes sparking, and Merlin revises that thought.

“Oooh, that sounds amazing,” he agrees immediately.

“I know a place,” he says, and of _course_ he does, “We’re leaving!” He shouts and waves to the others.

There is a chorus of ‘goodbyes’ and ‘nice to meet yous’ and ‘good games’ that chase them off the field, but Arthur is nearly speed walking away already. It’s only marginally cooler in the shade of the buildings as they head off, and they walk past about half a dozen places in silence to get ice cream before they finally stop at one.

The shop is wonderfully cool inside, and the rush of cold air makes his arms flare up with goosebumps, shivering. Arthur is surveying like a king looking over his vassals, intense as always.

“What’s your favorite?” Merlin asks, deeply curious. “Not the candy floss,” he says, and Arthur wrinkles his nose. “And not the brownie candy swirl, certainly.” Merlin eyes for some of the less sweet flavors, for some reason desperately wanting to guess right. “Is it the strawberry basil? Or the honey rosemary?”

“Those two are good,” Arthur says, still looking over the flavors. “We should get them and share. Sometimes they have a chili and chocolate that I like more, but it’s not here today.”

They _are_ good, Arthur is right again. It’s such a vastly different experience than his soft serve with Gwen that he isn’t quite sure what to make of it. He feels slightly out of body. Both are good, he knows that much even if he doesn’t know anything else. They sit outside at a little bright blue cafe table that wobbles and Arthur holds his cone under Merlin’s nose until he takes a bite, and waits patiently for the favor to be returned. “So, tonight,” Merlin asks around a mouthful of ice cream. “Did you still want to go out to eat again?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, eyes closed, “do you want Japanese or Thai? Indian?”

“You pick,” Merlin insists. Everything else he’s picked has been good so it’s very easy to let him make yet one more choice. “Unless you want me to pick,” he offers quickly, feeling guilty. Maybe Arthur is sick of making all the decisions.

“Hm, Thai.” He bites down on the edge of his cone and that’s that.

They’re going in opposite directions for now, so they part ways, making plans on when and how to meet later. He’ll have time for a shower, which is all he cares about.

He’s close enough to his flat that he can walk but far enough that it isn’t practical - but he does anyway. The walk might do him some good, even after the game he’s fizzing with energy and nerves. It’s crowded since it’s a Sunday, but the buzz of people isn’t setting his teeth on edge quite like usual. When he walks past a fancy chocolate shop that catches his eye he stops for a look inside instead of just ducking his head and ignoring it.

 _Maybe they have a chili chocolate_ , his mind suggests slyly.

They do. And a dark chocolate and turmeric, and ginger, and a variety of spices and herbs and tea varieties that Merlin has never heard of let alone thought about in the context of chocolate. He suspects he got upsold to a ludicrous degree, but he thought Arthur might appreciate them and hadn’t quite been able to say no when he thought about it like that. Thought about Arthur’s face while he ate the pasta, the ice cream not even an hour ago. Overpriced chocolates for their _second maybe date_ , oh god, he _has_ gone insane.

He could eat them himself, instead. No one had to know.

But Arthur wouldn’t laugh at him, he doesn’t think - not for this. Maybe he should just give them to him.

He considers it carefully during his shower, as he gets dressed, and after. He’s still considering it as he leaves, but they are in his hand and he doesn’t set them down on his pristine counter, either. Arthur brought a car to meet him, which is foolish, and unnecessary, and he gets out and opens the door for Merlin, and his heart goes fluttering in his chest like a bird when he does.

“Here,” Merlin blushes, “these are for you.”

Arthur opens the box right there in the back of the car instead of just saying thank you like a normal person, thumbing through the little booklet of literature that came with the chocolates. Because they were the sort of chocolates that required a book, and Merlin reddened even further. The other man touches a fingertip to each one as he methodically identifies them, and his mouth is twisting like he’s trying not to smile.

“This is brilliant. Ooh, kaffir lime leaf, ” he says, folding the booklet shut and lining it up carefully so everything sits pristine once more. “These all sound amazing, did you pick them for me?”

“Yes,” Merlin says shyly. “I thought you’d like them is all.”

“I do like them, very much.” And he reaches over to hook their pinkies together, tugging Merlin forward until he can lean in and press a kiss to his red cheek.

Dinner is jaw dropping levels of good again, of course, and when Arthur kisses him goodbye he tastes like dark chocolate and sea salt.

***

By the time Gwen finds a replacement to take over her lease Merlin’s new furniture has been delivered. They assemble things together while watching old episodes of Doctor Who, and they don’t even hate each other at the end of it. When she tentatively asks why he doesn’t use his magic to help and he only gives a shrug she lets it go with an understanding smile. The dishes have cleaned themselves a few times, which is better than it was, but it still feels strange and hollow when he tries to use it. Maybe he’s just this way forever now.

He’s got a wardrobe, with two pairs of shoes in it, and he puts his clothes away with a feeling of absurd triumph. They hang in a row and take up maybe an eighth of the space, but at least they aren’t in a suitcase anymore. The suitcase is _empty_ and packed away under his bed. He has many more identical hangers to fill should he choose to, courtesy of Gwen, who had been the one to remind him that hangers exist. He would have left without them entirely and probably without plates or cutlery or anything else useful if not for her, and he is so grateful for her practicality and good sense that he resolves to do something clever and wonderful for her. He’s not sure what yet, but he’ll figure it out.

Someone far more competent than him had come to install the washer and dryer, and he and Gwen had sat on the floor watching their clothes swoosh around for an embarrassing length of time.

“The benefit to having this,” she said, “is that you do _not_ have to stay and watch it. You won’t have strangers bursting into the flat and dumping our clothes on the floor so they can use the machine, and no one will stealing anyone’s pants.”

“Yes,” he says, entranced by the swishing, “but look how new and shiny it is. It has so many settings. There is a duvet setting, Gwennifer.”

“Merlin!” She seethes, slugging him in the arm, “I will move straight back out.”

“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” he snickers, begging for mercy. She hates the old joke, but it’s never stopped him once.

“So,” she says leadingly as he rubs his arm, “tell me about your gentleman friend.”

He squirms, feeling put on the spot. He’s not sure what to say. “He’s very handsome,” he starts, because he _is,_ “and he really likes food. Like, a lot. If he’s not a food critic he _should_ be, he’d be good at it.”

“Do you not know what he does?” Gwen raises an eyebrow while he fidgets. He’s been on three more dates with Arthur, and no, he still doesn’t know what he does or if he has family. He should… probably ask. He swallows.

“I don’t know a lot about him yet? But he’s great.” It sounds weak. He _knows_ it sounds weak. She’s smiling at him like she wants to be encouraging but is internally wondering if he’s dating a jerk with something to hide. “He _is_ ,” Merlin says more firmly. “He’s so committed to,” he gestures vaguely as he tries to come up with a word for it, “everything? I guess. We met in that cookery course I mentioned, did I tell you that? He was trying so hard, but he’s just awful. I don’t know how anyone can love food as much as he does and simultaneously be so _bad_ at it. But he never gave up, or stopped taking it seriously. He just… gives it his all? I-I don’t know. I just like him. I like how much he _likes_ what he likes. He’s passionate and kind of intense, but like, about how truffle oil is a scam and the misrepresentation of labeling with San Marzano tomatoes. He closes his eyes when he eats something he really enjoys, and he gets all quiet and focused, but he always shares it with me. He says it tastes better that way.”

Her smile has turned more and more genuine as he rants.

“I just really like him,” Merlin admits quietly. “I want him to like me as much as he likes pasta, Gwen.” She laughs, but he really means it. “I said like a lot just then, but you know.”

“I know,” She nods. “He does sound great. Are you going out again?”

“Yeah, this weekend. There’s a market thing and a food stall he wants to show me,” he confides, looking forward to it. “He seems excited about it.”

“Maybe you can make a point to talk about some stuff that isn’t food, get to know him a little more? Since you’re serious about him?”

“I should,” he agrees. “It’s been nice, though, too. With it just the way it is.”

She leans her head against his shoulder. “I get that,” she agrees with a hum.

She’s right though. If he’s serious he should be making more of an effort - it feels like a lot of his life is like that right now. It’s hard though.

Getting easier, but still hard.

“I’m glad you moved in, Gwen,” he says into her fluffy hair that he loves so much.

“Of course you are, I’m wonderful,” she agrees sagely. “You’re a much better person to live with than Sophia, too, if you’d been wondering.” He had been, actually. It’s nice to hear.

When he and Arthur go out again they walk along the Thames holding hands, and Merlin runs through his questions in his mind in practice run after practice run. They visit a cheese shop that smells _terrible_ , but every little sample he has is remarkably different and flavorful. Some are far too harsh to Merlin’s taste, and Arthur laughs at him as he tries to be polite about it around the faces he’s making while the patient shop assistant smothers a good natured smile.

By the end of their walk to the stall Arthur had wanted to visit they are loaded down with bags, specialty honey and cheese, bread, tea - Merlin wonders idly if Arthur has ever been in a Tescos. Maybe he’ll ask.

They eat on a bench, and just like always Arthur closes his eyes while he savors his first bite, and Merlin watches him enjoy it, feeling a wave of fondness roll over him anew. He’s smiling foolishly when Arthur opens his eyes again.

“Good?” He asks, opening his mouth to be fed a bite when Arthur offers. It is good, of course. Merlin isn’t quite sure what it is, having been waiting outside the queue holding their bags while Arthur ordered for them, but it’s bright and layered and crisp, and the flavor develops as he chews. There is a pretty citrus note that lingers at the end, and he’s certain he would not have noticed it before. He’s started appreciating these things more, paying better attention, and even if it turns out Arthur isn’t as serious about him as Merlin is he’ll still be happy to have learned that from him. The thought makes it easier to start talking.

“So, are there any foods you don’t like?”

“Panna cotta, for one,” Arthur says bleakly with deep feeling. “I know I can be fussy about desserts, but I just don’t understand it. That texture, bleh. What about you?”

“That cheese from about forty minutes ago,” Merlin says immediately with conviction, and Arthur throws his head back to laugh, exposing the line of his throat. He decides to just bite the bullet and start asking. “Do you like your job? You’ve never told me what it is.”

“Yeah,” he says, still grinning. “I do - a lot, actually. I work in fiscal management and risk analysis, which doesn’t sound fun, I know, but I do like it. It’s high pressure, but I’m good at it,” he boasts shamelessly. He pokes at his little cardboard container a bit before leaning in. “It’s my father’s company. I was angry about it as a teenager, like everyone had already decided what I was supposed to do, but I love it, honestly. My sister teases me like hell about it now, since I was so moody about it for so long.”

“You have a sister?” Merlin prods, hoping for more.

“Half sister,” Arthur nods, “Morgana. She and Uther - my dad - butt heads like crazy. She’s only a little younger than me, but she always got away with everything growing up. And you, siblings?”

And this is what Merlin knew would happen. He bites his lip, nervous despite having prepared himself for this all week. “No, no siblings. I don’t have any family, actually.” He waits for the usual questions or the sympathy, but Arthur just tilts his head, thinking.

“You can have Morgana, if you want,” he says as he takes another bite. A shaky giggle escapes before Merlin can stop it. “You want to tell me?” Arthur asks calmly.

“Not really, but yeah?” And Arthur nods as though that makes complete sense. “In a minute, though, I need-yeah, uhm. Tell me more about yourself first?”

The blonde shuffles a little, frowning. “Hm. I’m not sure what to say.”

“Well, how’d you get so into food?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Well, sort of. I just came out this way, or that’s what my dad says. My mother died when I was a baby, complications from preeclampsia. My father has always been very old school in his parenting ways, like his dad was. But he did try his best - one thing we’d do together is go to all these fancy restaurants that were totally unsuitable to bring a child to. I guess I never wanted a kids menu anyway though, I just wanted whatever the adults were having. And people like to talk about food. I don’t always know what to say, but people usually have an opinion on what they like to eat at least.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure what to say to that. It’s more revealing than he’d expected, and the trust makes him a little dizzy. He’s received a huge number of ‘I’m sorrys’ about his own mother’s death, and none of them had been particularly helpful other than maybe Gwen’s. It makes him feel more sympathetic to them though, as he sits in the moment, wanting to take away this old hurt. He takes Arthur’s hand instead, giving it a squeeze.

“I wasn’t sure.” Arthur says, suddenly awkward, his usual confidence put aside for a moment. “How interested in me you were. You never asked anything. But you picked out those chocolates, so I thought maybe.”

“Neither did you,” Merlin points out, but feels a bit ashamed of himself. “I thought maybe you just wanted to eat and hang out.” Arthur had done most of the legwork for their relationship so far.

“No, that’s fair. I, well - I was trying to not get too intense too fast. You remember when Gwaine kind of told me to back off?” Merlin nods, he remembers. “I’m not great at dating. I can be too blunt, and pushy about just about everything. I spend a lot of time on my work, and it’s a bit much to put up with all at once. I like spending time with you. I like _you._ I didn’t want to assume and get ahead of things.”

“I like you too,” Merlin assures him, flustered. He hadn’t known. Their hands are still joined, even though it means Arthur can’t finish his lunch. That probably says more than anything else, Merlin thinks wryly. “If I haven’t seemed super present I’m sorry. I’ve just been weird lately. Ever since my mum died, really. Sorry,” he says again, not sure why he’s apologizing.

“I’ve always been weird,” Arthur says, instead of telling Merlin that he’s not. “So don’t worry about it.” And the strangest thing of all is how big of a relief that is, reassured to just be himself. He finds himself smiling at Arthur again, feeling lighter. “Do you mind if I ask how she died?”

“Cancer.” Merlin says, turning to look out over the water. “I had an uncle, too, and he was ill - I was taking care of him. She waited months to tell me, until after he passed, because she thought I was worried enough about Gaius without worrying about her too. She thought she’d be fine. She wasn’t obviously. I’m still mad at her about that,” he confesses, more honest than he intended. Has he been angry about it this whole time? The truth of it turns his stomach. “I haven’t told anyone that before. She should have told me. She was always like that though - I don’t know if she ever forgave herself for me leaving school to come back home. I wouldn’t trade it though. It was the right decision.” Arthur squeezes his hand back, and Merlin looks down to their joined hands, eyes swimming a little.

“I don’t have a sister, but I have a flatmate who’s as good as,” he volunteers next, wanting to think of happier things. “We met in our first year at uni - both of us took a couple of gap years to save up, so we were a little older than a lot of the other people. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, but at that age it feels like it. We stuck together ever since. Her name’s Gwen. She helped me a lot, when I had to drop out to go take care of my mum. And before. And since,” he says with a snort.

“She sounds nice. It’s special, to have a friend like that. What were you studying? Do you want to finish still?” Arthur still hasn’t let go of his hand, and his eyes seem very blue.

“Oh, I was working on a nursing degree. And maybe this is terrible, but I can’t imagine finishing it. I don’t have it in me. At least not for now. I went into nursing mostly because it’s what my mum did. Great Uncle Gaius had a kind of hippie health kick thing, too, but I just-I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, but I knew I had to pick.” It does sound terrible to him when he says it out loud. “I _still_ don’t know what I want to do. I’m jealous you like your job so much,” he admits.

“Well, what did you want to do when you were little?”

“I wanted a lot of brothers and sisters, and to play piano and eat sweets and use magic all the time,” he says truthfully, biting his lip. It seems childish. He used to make little light shows and vivid colors of animals for Will while he played the beat up old piano that barely fit in their living room. He could play with his magic, twin sets of invisible hands, or backwards, or while doing headstands. Will would gleefully throw things at him for him to juggle in the air, dozens at a time. It had been so easy. A fine control that everyone had used to praise as something extraordinary. “I just wanted to have fun - not really anything particularly career worthy in that.”

“Oh, I didn’t even know you had magic!” Arthur blinks at him in fresh interest. “Morgana has magic. She does fortunes, but real ones - what’s your knack?”

“Telekinesis, and little lights and colors and things. But I haven’t been doing it at all lately, it doesn’t want to work for me anymore. Probably not a career in that, either.” He wrinkles his nose, feeling like a downer.

“Hands free moving company,” he suggests immediately and it startles a laugh out of Merlin while Arthur looks on smugly. “So, just to clarify, for my own sake. We’re _dating_ dating, then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Merlin confirms, still snickering. Dating. Boyfriends. He reaches over Arthur for the abandoned cardboard tray, food gone cold, but still tasty. Gets a bit of everything on the little bamboo fork and holds the bite out. “Say aah.”

“You know, it was Morgana’s idea to try and meet someone at a food course - common interests, she said.” He says around his bite. “I had bad luck before dating you.”

“Hah! So you _were_ there to pull! I thought you could have been. I thought it would work, too. Handsome.” He takes a bite for himself.

“And so it did work,” Arthur preens. “Want to take another class together? It’s fun, right?”

“Baking this time,” Merlin insists, feeling like making a choice for himself for a change. “I want to bake another cake, that was my favorite lesson. Will you still come?”

Arthur smacks a noisy kiss to his cheek, looking blissful. “Of course I will.”

***

The lego Star Destroyer is halfway completed, he and Arthur have been dating for two months, and this is how Merlin measures time now.

There is a planter box on the balcony, with the creatively named Basil rosemary plant and Rosemary the basil plant. It was just dumb enough to make Gwen and he pleased with themselves though, so it didn’t seem right to change it now.

He’s meeting Arthur for the first one of their baking courses tonight, and afterwards he will be visiting Arthur’s place for the first time. He’s promised Gwen he’ll bring back cake in the morning. They’ve been taking things slowly, and instead of being nervous he’s just pleasantly anticipatory for whatever it brings.

A bag sits by the front door with a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and he feels a bit like a kid going to a new friend’s for a sleepover for the first time. Which when he thought about it isn’t that far off. He hopes he can sleep - he can’t call his mum to pick him up if he doesn’t have fun. He can remember that with a fond smile now though, the first time he’d stayed over at Will’s house. They snuck out of bed to watch a scary movie after his parents had gone to sleep, and Merlin had cried so hard he’d nearly been sick with it, and demanded to call his mum to come get him _right then_. She’d given him a big hug even though she’d clearly been asleep, already in her dressing gown when she drove over and smelling of the lavender she laundered the sheets in.

Going back into the gleaming classroom feels more welcoming than he would have thought. For all that he’d only spent a handful of nights here it’s comfortable as he slides his apron over his head. When Arthur arrives at the station next to his Merlin wordlessly hands over his own rich red one that had gotten stuffed in Merlin’s bag after their last disastrous Italian course, finally returned, freshly washed.

“I had to figure out how to take all the leather bits off for the wash, it’s a very silly apron,” Merlin stage whispers.

“I think it’s neat,” Arthur says easily as he pulls it on.

“Impractical,” Merlin sticks his tongue out.

“You think it’s handsome,” Arthur waves a hand over his own torso, posing. And it is, so Merlin merely hums in appreciation. “Got you to date me, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it was the apron,” he agrees solemnly. “No other reasons whatsoever.”

Their instructor introduces himself as Geoffrey Monmouth, and insists they call him ‘chef’, and Merlin is instantly bemused by the older man.

The cake they make isn’t itself anything terribly complicated, but it’s the first time Merlin’s attempted a swiss buttercream, and he finds his fingers so busy he can’t quite keep an eye on Arthur like he wants to. He wishes longingly that he had an extra pair of hands, and suddenly he does. His thermometer slides back into perfect posture from where it had been about to slump into the eggwhites he’s stirring over the simmering water. He blinks at it and then over at Arthur. Had he seen?

Arthur can’t possibly have noticed anything, however, having plenty of troubles of his own. Had Merlin just done magic again? Just like that? On purpose? Feeling daring he lets go of the spatula suddenly, which keeps stirring briskly on it’s own.

“Arthur,” he hisses, feeling like he could just float away on a cloud, swimming with bubbly relief and smiling so wide his face hurt from it. “Look, look!” And he holds both hands up while the buttercream makes itself merrily. Demands again, "Look!”

Arthur’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops flatteringly. “Merlin, your magic is working!” He says back, flicking to look to the instructor, trying to be quiet, as though they might get scolded for being disruptive. “Cheater,” he laughs when he sees Chef Monmouth is facing away. “Now do mine,” he demands.

“Hah!” Merlin taunts him, and nearly sends his spatula flying in his over-eagerness, has to corral it back down as Arthur laughs.

When it comes to frosting the cooled cake he happily remembers playing the piano with two sets of hands, and it’s just like that, but _new_. It spins steadily while the frosting behaves perfectly, making little dips and waves for hills, bees and flowers shaping on their own, just for the fun of it. Some blossom open like they are alive, dots of colors sparkling and spreading like watercolors on their petals, and he knows he’s getting carried away but he can’t seem to help himself. One of the frosting bees keeps bobbing from flower to flower.

He squirms when Chef Monmouth looks it over, hoping he won’t _actually_ get in trouble.

“I’ve never seen such a cleverly applied use of magic in cake decorating before, that level of precision is quite difficult. Very well done,” he says sincerely, and Arthur is beaming at him over his own ugly mountain of cake and frosting. Merlin very genuinely can’t wait to try it.

It’s not great, but Merlin finishes his slice anyway, even if the frosting is still a little gritty with sugar crystals.

“I’m not cutting it,” Arthur says, refusing to eat a single bite of his own cake, no matter what Merlin says about it. A girl is taking a video of the bee taking flight to send to her friend. “It’s art.”

“It’s cake, it’s meant to be eaten.” Merlin scoffs, embarrassed and proud all at once. His hands are shaking.

“It’s _art_. At the very least show Gwen first, didn’t you promise to bring her cake tomorrow? I want to send a video to Morgana, too.”

“It’s not that good,” he protests, but can’t deny how happy he is. _It_ ** _is_** _a very cute cake_ , he thinks. Arthur already has his camera app up as he tries to get the best lighting, though, and Merlin didn’t really want to stop him anyway.

It felt good to be proud of something he made. For his magic to flow under his hands again. He’d felt so clumsy and slow without it, so used to having it his whole life, hating to have been abandoned by it for so long - or to have abandoned it for so long. He’s still not sure which. He’s still not sure it matters. He bounces on his toes, feeling wild and awake.

“Morgana wants it,” Arthur says, his phone lighting up again and again. “She wants it right now, apparently, and is willing to talk exchange.” He frowns at his phone. “I really should have predicted this.”

“I thought you said you worked in risk analysis,” he makes fun, and Arthur beams as he ruffles Merlin’s hair.

And that is how they make their way to Arthur’s intimidatingly large house, cake held steady in the air with Merlin’s magic - his _magic,_ he wants to shout - so it didn’t get disturbed in the car Arthur demands they take. Gwen is invited for the late night tea party as well, and Morgana is already there tapping her toes impatiently when they arrive. She’s strikingly gorgeous, and dressed for high tea, but greets Gwen in her cute overalls and colorful blouse like they’re old friends.

The house is gorgeous as well, and a beautiful grand piano in a sitting room catches his eye as they walk through the absurd entrance hall. Arthur makes tea in the massive kitchen, an elaborate ritual for him, and Morgana takes several more pictures of the cake while Merlin fidgets and blushes and Gwen keeps exclaiming over how lovely it is. His heart feels close to bursting full.

Gwen cheers when Merlin finally cuts into it, and he makes sure she gets one of the flying bumblebees. The crumb looks perfect and even, and it’s just a silly cake, but _still_. He doesn’t cry when he takes a bite for himself, but he kind of wants to. Morgana is swaying happily on her chair, making little noises of appreciation, and Arthur has his eyes closed, just like always. When he opens them they are a bit damp, and Merlin knows it’s not because he likes sweets. The tea is a perfect choice to accompany the cake, of course.

Not a bad match, he thinks, savoring both together.

By the time the night is coming to an end he has somehow agreed to make another cake for Morgana’s birthday party, he’s not entirely certain how. Gwen gives him a rib crushing hug as she leaves, and he sees the two women exchanging numbers when Morgana offers to give her a lift back home in her sporty little car.

“Merlin,” Arthur is saying as he pulls him into a tight hug, pressing his face into Merlin’s neck and giving him a kiss. “You did so well. I’m so happy for you. So proud of you."

He’s warm and he smells like sugar as his own hands come up to fist in Arthur’s shirt, a couple of happy tears spilling over. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever get my magic back like how it was when I was little,” he says wetly. “Everything used to be so easy. So fun. I thought I’d never feel that way again.”

“You had fun tonight, then?” And he must know the answer, but Merlin nods anyway, ducking his head further into the crook of his shoulder. “Then I’m glad. I’m so glad.” He rubs his thumbs in circles against the nape of Merlin’s neck, and he feels boneless and melty as the embrace lingers on and on. He’s spent all his energy, and he just wants to be put to bed. He has tried to learn at least a little that he needs to speak up for what he wants when he finally _does_ want something, so he follows through.

“Take me to bed?” He begs, feeling bold and shy all at once. It’s a hike to get there, but not awkward in the slightest, and when Arthur kisses him this time he tastes sweet. The bed is welcoming, and it’s _fun_. He laughs, and feels joyful, and _cherished_ , and he does his best to show Arthur the same, to welcome him like he has Merlin.

Afterwards they lie together, and he struggles to stay awake, not wanting the night to end just yet. This perfect night. _Magical night_ , he thinks to himself, amused, and smiles into Arthur’s tummy.

Arthur does a lot of exercise and sport, Merlin knows, but he’s also a man who loves to eat, and he’s got just enough of a layer of softness to him that Merlin finds him to be the most comfortable and wonderful pillow in the entire world. He refuses to budge from where he has made a home on Arthur’s stomach, sighing happily as his hands lock around his waist in a vice grip. His legs splay and his feet dangle over the edge of the bed, but it’s worth it. Arthur’s hand runs through his hair again and again, and Merlin feels languid and free, untethered.

“Are you ever going to come back up?” Arthur questions, voice low and sleepy.

“Nrgh,” Merlin says, nuzzling deeper. He makes a weak biting motion to make the other man laugh, and grins when his pillow shakes.

“I love you,” Arthur says, his hand not stopping its petting at all. “Is that ok? I know it’s soon.”

“It’s ok,” Merlin agrees, unafraid, and wiggles up to kiss him properly. “I love you too.” He thinks about it. “But do you love me as much as pasta?”

Arthur shakes with silent laughter again, grinning against his mouth through another kiss, and another after that. “Yeah, Merlin, as much as pasta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a little more for this to be honest - I was thinking about either a tied in story or a third chapter! Please let me know if there is an opinion on the best way forward in regards to that (if you're interested at all lol) :P
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far, I do hope you enjoyed it!


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